The perception of him flooded her being. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. I will return to Manchester at once.
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